Rainwater
by Hulabaloo
Summary: Sherlock/John, desperate kissing in the rain. Slash.


**Title:** Rainwater  
**Pairing/Characters:** Sherlock/John (BBC!verse)  
**Rating:** PG(ish?)  
**Word Count:** 675  
**Spoilers:** All three of the BBC Episodes.  
**Summary:** Written for the prompt, 'Sherlock/John, desperate kissing in the rain.'  
**Notes/Warnings:** None, just kissing. Oh, and slash, and a teesny bit of angst. Beta'd by Tegan and Katie, two of my awesome friends. Thanks guys. :)  
Reviews are appreciated. :)  
Hope its what the OP wanted...  
**Disclaimer:** Anything you recognise is not mine.

It's suffocating. Thick wet sheets that fall relentlessly; drowning anyone within seconds of leaving shelter. John is running, ignoring the rain as it seeps into his socks and shoes. Sloshing and wetting his toes and soaking into the soles. Creating the slow burn of friction that rubs together skin and fibre.

John could feel his toes sliding in his shoes, but he _didn't care_.

Two minutes ago Sherlock was supposed to meet him here. After they'd split up to pursue a suspect. One minute ago John started running.

Skirting a corner he heard rather than saw a scuffle down a side street before bodily twisting towards it. His hair flopped down into his eyes, water droplets flying. Pushing it away he was confronted with Sherlock against some boy with a knife. Except; the knife had morphed into a pill, then red dots, and finally, a gun. Swallowing his terror he pushed forward and knocked the knife from the youth's hand, laid forth a punch to the gut followed by an uppercut to the chin. His momentum from the sprint had carried him onwards and left the boy with no chance to respond, he was lying on the floor looking up at the falling rain with closed eyes before he could shout.

He was still looking down at the boy, a child really, when he felt fingers grab at his sleeve, pulling him away. Turning, suddenly Sherlock was there, right next to him, hands framing his face, lips moving.

"...alright? John. John!"

His eyes snapped up and he was looking up into steel grey orbs clouded with concern. John found it oddly funny, _he_ wasn't the one threatened with a knife.

Of course, a _knife_. But it wasn't always a knife, sometimes it was poison, or a gun, or drowning, or strangulation, or… or… or…

He swallowed; this was what it was always going to be like, wasn't it? Watching this man, _this man he loves_, in death's way at every turn. Whilst John can only watch, just waiting for that one time that he wasn't on time, wasn't there save him… to save…

"John, John, _look_ at me. Please."

Fingers were on his chin pushing his face back up, he leaned into the touch and moved his hands to fist in Sherlock's coat, pulling the lapels closer, burying his face in the smell of Sherlock's neck. A hand was lightly dusting down his back.

"John, I'm sorry. But…" _this is our life now. It's scary, and it's dangerous, but I love you. _

"I love you too, Sherlock but, if you'd died…" _I don't know what I'd do._

Sherlock leaned back and manoeuvred John so that they were face to face, "John." He enunciated pointedly, grey eyes sinking into brown, "I'm not going, _anywhere_."

And they were kissing, hard and desperate. Sherlock moved his hands to John's hips, pulling him closer, their bodies tight against each other. John, in turn encircled his arms around Sherlock to his back, pulling, tugging.

Their lips were hot against each other, insistent and unrelenting. Sherlock pushed down and ran his tongue over John's lips who groaned and opened his mouth, letting Sherlock's tongue run over his top teeth and back down to curl against his own organ. Mouth's crushed together at odd angles each gaining the best advantage, slipping and sliding, faces wet with the rain that still lashed from above running in rivulets along contours and dripping down, down.

It was the most erotic kiss John had experienced, the wind still howled and the rain still fell but, here, with Sherlock; it felt like his own little piece of heaven. They pulled apart, resting foreheads together. Saturated hair clung and stuck to skin, John moved a hand to push back the strands that had fallen over Sherlock's eyes and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing an ear. Sherlock smiled and pulled John into a tight embrace. Sherlock was here, was alive and in his arms and _his._ And just that, _that_, had to be good enough, for now at least.

_fin_


End file.
